


(But If You Pardon) I Will Mend

by ladyhoneydarlinglove



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, McGenji Week, Pining, Pre Recall, Pre-Relationship, Prompt - Reunion, mild violence, post dragons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-26
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-08-27 05:39:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8389351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyhoneydarlinglove/pseuds/ladyhoneydarlinglove
Summary: He's long since given up hope of finding anything, but McCree's just fool enough to return to Hanamura every year anyway.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Pin by Grimes, which is lovely McGenji theme.
> 
> Apologies for any spelling or grammar errors or just inconsistencies in general, I'm just tired of looking at this and wanted to get it up.
> 
> «Text between these brackets indicates Japanese.»

McCree enjoys traveling to Hanamura for a number of reasons.

One, no matter the time of year, Hanamura remains almost surreally beautiful. Summer bathes the city in vibrant greenery and sunlight, autumn bears flurries of red and gold leaves, winter blankets the streets in powder soft snow, and spring brings about a veritable typhoon of cherry blossoms, covering everything in delicate pink and white. The wind sweeps them through the streets in waves, and more than once, McCree has had to spit out a mouthful while strolling downtown.

Two, McCree worries less for his safety here. The reputation he gained while taking down the Shimadas still holds, and even the most hardened of Hanamura’s criminals and bounty hunters find themselves wary of trying to hunt down the gunslinger. The locals stopped reporting his appearances when he thwarted a rather vicious robbery at the beloved RIkimaru, and while they still point and giggle behind hands at the strange cowboy walking in their midst, if authorities ever ask after him, they receive nothing but shrugs and blank stares in response.

Three, it’s an opportunity to look for Genji, a task that, despite its futility, McCree has never fully managed to give up.

It’s been years since Genji left Blackwatch, and while McCree’s life on the run keeps him too occupied to dwell often on old sentimentalities, he’d never deny missing Genji terribly. The cyborg’s absence leaves a small void in McCree’s chest, one he doubts he’ll ever be able to fill again; too much time and effort invested in someone who was never truly` in a position to return his affections. McCree’s not fool enough to truly chase after Genji—he’s not confident Genji wouldn’t strike him down on the spot if he ever did—but every year, McCree allows himself the indulgence of a pilgrimage back to Hanamura. What McCree hopes to accomplish with his yearly visits eludes even himself, as he’s long since given up hope of finding Genji here, but the ritual of it gives McCree a measure of peace.

Today, McCree starts his search by heading to the Rikimaru, where he’s greeted to a chorus of cheers from the locals and staff. McCree grins, bowing gracefully at the display, laughing as a couple small woops arise from the crowd. He makes his way to the counter, winking at the older woman standing behind it, who laughs heartily and nudges the man next to her. He turns around, a wide smile bringing the wrinkles on his old face into sharp relief.

«Back again so soon, Cowboy-san?» the man behind the counter greets with a laugh. He slides an open bottle of beer to McCree, who grins, tipping his hat at the man and his wife who risked life and limb to help ferrying information about the Shimadas during McCree’s Blackwatch days. By McCree’s last count, he still owes Akira and Akiko Toki three lives for all their aid.

«You know me, Toki-san,» McCree answers, lifting the beer and taking a sip. «Can’t stay away from Hanamura too long. Y’all would miss me too much.»

Toki and Akiko laugh together. «House special, extra egg?» Akiko asks, beaming.

«Always.» McCree glances around the ramen bar, not exceptionally full at this strange hour. «Business been good?» he asks conversationally.

«Of course,» Toki answers. «And yourself?»

«Just fine.» McCree sips his beer, watching the ramen bar with feigned disinterest as Akiko makes his meal, and Toki tends to things behind the counter. He gives Akiko another wink when she sets his bowl in front of him, and she giggles, wizened face going red as she returns to her cooking. “So,” McCree says in English, swirling his broth to distribute the chili sauce, “anything interesting going on in Hanamura these days?”

Toki smiles. “Ah, just the usual,” he responds, English perfect despite the accent. He told McCree once he picked the language up by watching old American sitcoms. “Too many street gangs these days, but they’re all dumb kids. Not real threats, unless you don’t like neon clothing.”

“As a matter of fact, I do not,” McCree chuckles. Neons, green in particular, bring back too many memories. “But I reckon I can deal with it.”

“I don’t know. They might blind you if you stare at them too long,” Toki quips, and McCree laughs. He slurps down some of the springy ramen noodles, yelling a compliment to Akiko after he swallows. She titters in between slicing her scallions, and Toki swats him playfully. “Hands off my wife, Cowboy-san.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” McCree takes another slurp of noodles, then asks, in a lower voice, “Any news about the wayward son?” McCree’s long known he’s not the only one who makes an annual visit to Hanamura.

Toki snorts. “Word is he arrived last night. Not sure where he’s staying, but he’ll be performing his annual ritual tonight, and likely be gone by tomorrow.” He grumbles something under his breath, free to express his intense dislike of one Hanzo Shimada now that he no longer fears the retaliation of the clan.

“That’s per usual, isn’t it?” McCree asks. He doesn’t normally bother keeping tabs on Hanzo, not willing to deal with that particular can of worms, but the vain hope that where Hanzo is, Genji may follow, lingers.

“Yes. In and out, just like the clan taught him. He must preserve what little honor he has left.” Toki very nearly rolls his eyes.

“Hmm.” McCree slurps down some more noodles. The rich pork broth warms him down the tips of his fingers and toes. “Don’t suppose you’ve heard anything about Genji?” he asks, doubtful but unable to help himself.

Toki smiles at him sadly. “Not since the last time you were here, I’m afraid. If Genji ever returns to Hanamura, he does not make his presence known. A shame.” Toki sighs. “I should like to see him again.”

So would McCree. “I figured as much. But it never hurts to double check.”

“You know, you ask after him every year,” Toki says after a pause where McCree continues to slurp down noodles and broth. “The two of your must have been very close, for you to wonder after him all this time.”

He gives McCree a look that has McCree setting his beer down slowly, measuring his response. The subject has never come up before now, though McCree’s always been prepared; Toki was more than familiar with Genji’s old lifestyle. After a moment, McCree settles on a chuckle. “Reckon I was probably the only person he considered a friend for as long as he worked together.” He says. It’s not a lie, just a selective truth. McCree sets his beer down with a sigh. “Haven’t heard from him in years,” he admits to Toki. “Guess I’d just like to know he’s alright.” To know If Genji is even still alive; not a given, considering the state in which he fled Overwatch. And if he is, if he would even want to see McCree again.

Toki opens his mouth, but whatever he’s about to say gets cut off by a patron dashing into the restaurant and nearly knocking over a table. «Cowboy-san!» she gasps. «Police are coming!»

McCree downs the last of his beer in one great gulp. «Thank you!» he says to the girl, who nods gleefully and giggles when he winks at her. “Reckon that’s my cue to leave, ‘fore I start causing more trouble,” he tells Toki, who sighs fondly.

“When will you ever not be in trouble?” he asks, but hands McCree a complimentary candy and shoos him away when McCree tries to tip, assuring him that McCree will be the first to know if any word of Genji comes his way.

McCree leaves the Rikimaru in rush, neatly bypassing the police and heading for Hanamura’s many side streets, whistling cheerfully and ignoring the growing pang in his heart. _Foolish_ , McCree tells himself. He ought to know better by now, but hope is frustratingly tenacious.

He turns a corner, intending to head up the Hanamura’s path of walkways above the city. A small cluster of people crowd together in one corner at the end of the street, voices echoing loud and boisterous in the small space. Their garishly bright, American-style clothing mark them as members of Toki’s mentioned street gangs, and McCree slows his pace as he approaches, listening carefully to their jeering.

«You really wanna do this the hard way, scrap heap?» threatens a man with a neon green snapback and a nail studded baseball bat.

«Yeah. Give up what you got and we _might_ let you off easy,» a girl snickers, snapping her bubblegum in between the words.

Another voice rises from the din, barely audibly over the answering laughter. «I have told you, I am but a humble traveler.» The automated tone marks them as an omnic. «I have nothing to give but my blessings of peace.»

« _Blessings of peace_ ,» Bubblegum taunts in a singsong voice. «Can’t buy shit with a fucking blessing, tin can.»  The sound of metal hitting a hard surface rings out, followed by a tinny sounding grunt swallowed up by more callous laughter.

The sheer arrogance laced into their taunts and jeers has McCree itching to shut them up. His fruitless search for a man McCree will likely never see again has left frustration bubbling in his veins, and beating down a group of street thugs sounds like a mighty fine way to pass the time. McCree cracks his knuckles, and shouts before he can think better of it. “Hey!”

The thugs turn, their expressions shifting from curiosity to shock to anger as they take in the man in the cowboy uniform. One of the boys grins, gold capped teeth glinting in the sunlight. «Check out Six-Gun Killer over here,» he sneers, his compatriots snickering along with him.

McCree grins crookedly. «You say that like it’s an insult,» he replies, in perfect Japanese. Genji might’ve almost been impressed.

The sneers drop off their faces like flies. «Who are you? What the fuck do you want?» Gold Teeth snarls, a chorus of similar sentiments echoing around him. A few crack knuckles, or cross their arms over their chests to show off (frankly paltry) biceps. The boldness of their actions mark them as too young to recognize the Gunslinger. McCree’s kind of glad; they won’t be a challenge, not really, but he welcomes the opportunity to be occupied by something other than Genji.

«Me?» McCree smirks. «Nothing. Just think you should leave the omnic alone.»

«It’s none of your damn business,» jeers a girl wearing two pairs of sunglasses.

«I’m making it my business.»

«And if we don’t?» another man sneers, He flexes his fingers, showing off the heavy brass knuckles adorning his hands.

McCree barely suppresses his snort. «Do you really want to find out?» he answers, running his thumb along Peacekeeper’s handle.

A murmur runs through the group, and the omnic takes the opportunity to move forward, offering McCree his first good look at the hapless victim. He can’t discern the model, but the omnic’s loose, saffron colored pants and the halo of orbs surrounding his neck designate him clearly as a member of the Shambali. The calm set of his face and the way he hovers above the ground lend him a distinct air of serenity. «Please. There is no need for violence,» he says, his tone soothing despite how mechanized it sounds. «I am sure we can solve this dispute—»

The monk cries out, head slamming into the wall next to him as Snapback takes a heavy swing with his baseball bat. «Shut up, scrap heap!» he yells. «This is between us and the cowboy.»

“The cowboy,” McCree growls in English, anger spiking through his veins, “is done fucking around.”

He chucks a flash grenade at Gold Teeth’s feet, several voices ringing out in unison as it explodes. McCree rushes forward, grabbing Gold Teeth by the lapels of his hideous orange sport coat, bringing his head down to meet McCree’s knee. Gold Teeth howls in pain as McCree drops him, catching the bat Snapback swings his way deftly with his metal arm, wrenching it from his grasp. He slams the butt into Snapback’s stomach, and Snapback reels backwards, bile and blood spewing from his mouth as he trips over Gold Teeth.

Brass Knuckles roars, lunging for McCree at the same time as Sunglasses. He swings his arm towards the side of McCree’s face, but McCree dodges, feinting left. Sunglasses takes the bait, screaming as McCree slams the baseball bat into her shins, and she pitches forward, crashing into Gold Teeth and Snapback.

«This guy’s fucking crazy!» Brass Knuckles yells as he lunges again. McCree rolls his eyes as he jumps away, Brass Knuckles’ momentum carrying him into a headlong collision with the wall. He glances to the side, smirking as he sees Sunglasses and Snapback darting for the main street. He shoots a warning look Bubblegum, still standing by the strangely calm monk. She shrieks and runs after her companions, screaming at them not to leave her behind.

McCree turns back to deal with Brass Knuckles when a bullet whizzes past his head, the shot ringing loudly in McCree’s ears. He whips around to see Gold Teeth holding a gun, lips pulled back in an ugly grimace as he aims for McCree’s head. “Fuck you,” he snarls in heavily accented English. McCree laughs as he draws Peacekeeper faster than Gold Teeth can blink, about to knock the gun about of his hand with a warning shot when something else flies past him and hits Gold Teeth Square in the face.

McCree blinks as Gold Teeth crumples, moaning in agony as an orb swathed in a strange purple glow hovers over him for a moment before it retreats. McCree watches, dumbfounded, as the orb returns to the monk, settling neatly back into place around his neck while its owner regards McCree with an unreadable expression.

McCree’s gaze darts between the bloodied thug moaning on the ground and the monk for a few seconds, and then to where Brass Knuckles lays slumped and dazed against the wall, face bearing the distinct imprint of the pattern on the monk’s orbs. McCree can’t help but laugh at the sight.

“Gettin’ the feeling my intervention here was unnecessary,” McCree chuckles in English as he holsters Peacekeeper, glad not to have fired it.

“Entirely unnecessary,” the monk agrees, matching the language, his cheerful tone far more emphatic than the fixed set of his face. “But the sentiment is greatly appreciated. Not every human would dare to intervene on behalf of an omnic.” The monk bows his head, his halo of orbs glowing faintly.

McCree shrugs. “Yeah, well… Didn’t seem right leavin’ you to fend for yourself, that’s all.” McCree kicks Gold Teeth lightly, satisfied when he lets out a pained groan and scrambles up shakily, leaving in the same direction as his companions. He ignores Brass Knuckles, who looks as though he might be there for a while.

McCree turns to face the monk, regarding him curiously. “And do correct me if I’m wrong here, but ain’t you monks supposed to be a group of pacifists?”

“Most are,” the monk replies, “but I am somewhat of an exception.” The monk tilts his head slightly to the right, and McCree’s brain supplies _frowning_ before he he can stop it. He fights back a sigh and tries to ignore the pang in his chest as his thoughts return to Genji.

He tips his hat, about to bid the monk good day when the monk says, “You are Jesse McCree.”

It isn’t a question. McCree’s body tenses even as he takes on an unassuming smile, watching the monk now with renewed interest. “That I am,” he says, laying on his drawl just a little thicker for effect. “Wasn’t aware my name was a point of interest for omnic monks.”

“It is not,” the monk answers bluntly. “But a world traveler such as myself must keep up with current events, and I have seen you on the news before. You are not a hard man to identify.”

McCree laughs. “That so?” he drawls. He keeps a firm grip on Peacekeeper; an assassin disguised as a monk would be far from the weirdest threat McCree’s ever had to face. “And what kinds of news stories might they be tellin’ about little old me?”

“Many,” the monk replies vaguely. “Did you not once stop a robbery at a ramen shop very near here?”

“That I did.”

The monk bows his head slightly. “You must enjoy Hanamura very much to come back so often,” he says, and McCree gets the distinct impression he’s rather amused.

“Hanamura’s a nice place,” McCree answers. “Beautiful scenery, nice people, great food—what’s not to like?”

The monk lets out a small hum, the dots on his forehead glowing for a brief moment. “And these things are the only reason you return to Hanamura?” he asks.

The question hits far too close to home for McCree’s liking. His eyes narrow, his grip tightening on Peacekeeper, though he doesn’t draw quite yet. “Not much else to return for,” he lies smoothly.

“Is there not?” the monk replies, still with a hint of amusement, and something else McCree can’t name. A muscle in McCree’s jaw twitches against his will; he tries to be open minded, never sharing the same distrust for omnics as his mentor, but certain things about the machines have always driven McCree crazy. People he reads like open books, no matter how well they think they hide their secrets. But omnics, with their perpetually fixed expressions, are infuriatingly difficult to pin down. McCree’s almost tempted to just shove the monk against the wall and hold him there until he starts talking.

“What brings a member of the Shambali to Hanamura?” McCree asks instead, keeping his smile calm, his posture relaxed. He would honestly prefer to keep this nonviolent, but if the omnic makes a move, it will take McCree less than half a second to draw Peacekeeper and put a bullet between what McCree assumes to be his eyes. “Didn’t think y’all were much for leaving Nepal, except Mondatta.”

The monk bows his head. “The Shambali go where they are needed, to spread peace and heal the wounds left between human and omnic by the Omnic Crisis,” he answers, then, after a pause, continues, “Though that said, I am no longer a true Shambali, and I go where I please.”

Tension coils deep in McCree’s shoulders. “That go along with your being an exception?” he asks, nodding the dent in the wall where Brass Knuckles no longer sits. McCree didn’t even notice him leave. _Sloppy_ , says a voice in his head that sounds far too much like Reyes.

“It does,” the monk says. McCree waits for more, but the monk offers nothing.

“So you’re an exception, you go where you please, and you fight when necessary,” McCree recaps after a few moments of silence. “And you came to Hanamura to—what? Sight see?” He almost wonders if the monk was hired by the last of Shimadas to exact their revenge upon McCree; it seems like the kind of shitty, dramatic stunt they’d pull.

The monk doesn’t answer right away. He inclines his head forward, and the blue spots on his forehead glow, holding for a few seconds before they fade. “I came to Hanamura to aid a student of mine in his quest for resolution,” he answers after a long moment. The monk lifts his head, pinning McCree under a gaze far more intense than it was seconds ago. “And I suspect, McCree, that your reasons for coming here are quite similar.”

McCree shudders, jaw going slack as the monk appears to stare right past every one of McCree’s carefully cultivated walls and into the core of his being. He hasn’t felt this exposed since Reyes masterfully picked him apart in his interrogation room, decades ago. His jaw clenches, and McCree takes a step a back, slipping a finger onto Peacekeeper’s trigger. Teenage thugs are one thing; a lone omnic likely far more skilled than he appears is another entirely. “You seem to know an awful lot about me considerin’ we ain’t ever meet before, stranger,” McCree drawls. “Why do you reckon that is?”

The monk chuckles. It’s mechanical but warm; not the laugh of man come to hunt McCree down. “Perhaps it is the mysticism of the Shambali that grants me such wisdom,” he supplies vaguely. “Perhaps I am a fan of your colorful exploits. Or perhaps,” and here the monk tips his head in the same insufferably amused way that’s starting to drive McCree crazy, “there is a connection between us you do not see.”

The monk moves forward. McCree itches to draw Peacekeeper, but the monk’s words and his eerie not gaze keep McCree transfixed, body pinned down despite years of training screaming at him to move. Below that though, in the pit of his gut, something else stirs, and though McCree couldn’t put a name to it, it tells him to let the monk pass. That there’s more to this picture than McCree can see just yet.

With a heavy sigh, McCree allows his hand to drop off Peacekeeper. The fact that the monk doesn’t immediately try to kill him bodes somewhat well. He opens his mouth, about to throw out some snarky quip to see if it goads the monk into action when one of the orbs around his neck moves. It glows a bright, cheery gold, in sharp contrast to the cloudy, somber purple from earlier. McCree nearly balks as it begins to circle his head, but stops as something warm and merry washes over him, spreading to the very tips of his fingers and toes. His breathing evens, the tension in his shoulder bleeds away, and the frustrations he’s had building for weeks over Genji vanish. In this moment, McCree’s entire world comes into balance.

“The hell was that?” McCree gasps.

The monk chuckles as the orb circles back to him. “Consider it a thanks for your unnecessary intervention,” the monk says. “I wish you luck in your exploits, McCree. May our paths cross again someday.”

* * *

It is exactly fifteen minutes after McCree finally manages to move from where the monk left him frozen and utterly bewildered in the alley that McCree’s brain deigns to make itself useful.

He’s at a corner store, trying not to give in to the urge to buy a pack of cigarettes (he did try to quit at one point, though only smoking cigars is about as close as McCree will ever come to fully kicking the habit). A reporter on the holoscreen playing in the background talks about Tekhartha Mondatta’s upcoming visit to London. McCree’s not really paying attention, too busy fixating on what Ramune flavor he wants when a panel begins discussing whether the Shambali have truly been helpful in bridging the gap between omnic and human, and it hits him like one of the monk’s orbs to the face.

 _Genji_.

Hope bursts to life in his chest so fast McCree has to bite down a gasp, all the rational and irrational parts of his mind firing at once. The idea is simultaneously completely ridiculous and utterly plausible, and the weight of it forces McCree outside, in desperate need of fresh air to calm his racing mind. Nothing has changed, but the streets of Hanamura are now alight with possibility, and McCree resumes his search for Genji in earnest even as he argues with himself.

 _Genji hated omnics,_ the rational part of McCree argues. _They reminded him too much of himself. He could barely stand bein’ in the same room as them, even on good days. It was one of the few things he and Reyes agreed on. D’you really think he would want to get within ten feet of any omnic, much less a Shambali?_

 _How else would Zenyatta have known about me? He called me by name, he knew exactly who I was,_ the irrational part of him counters. McCree’s eyes dart around wildly, old habits kicking in as he attempts to process as much of the world around him as he possibly can, any minute detail that might lead him back to Genji.

_You don’t exactly keep a low profile. You’re a wanted man on five continents. And it’s not six only ‘cause you refuse to go to Australia._

This is true; McCree’s been marked for capture by most of the world the day he abandoned Blackwatch. Hanamura might keep him safe for a little while, but soon McCree will be forced to move on, for the citizens sakes if not he own. _Still_ , he thinks, _I don’t see any other reason a former Shambali would be interested in a vigilante. And what about the connection he mentioned?_

 _That could have been some religious bullshit,_ the rational part of him argues.

_Religious bullshit that could lead to Genji._

_You’re an idiot_ , his brain chides.

 _Tell me somethin’ I don’t know_ , McCree shoots back.

He continues to search Hanamura for hours, well past nightfall. Party goers and clubbers begin filling the streets, and restaurants are either closing up or switching to the late night menu. Laughter and revelry rings throughout the air, people decked in bright neons and shimmering metallics as the fashions these days command. Several times McCree spots flashes of neon green, and his heart speeds up in his chest only be crushed with disappointment when inevitably, they don’t belong to Genji.

By the time midnight rolls around, McCree hopes have been dashed once more.

He sighs heavily, sitting down on a bench outside the Rikimaru, tugging the brim of his hat down low over his face. Exhaustion settles deep into his bones. The tiny spark of hope flickers feebly inside him as McCree lights up a cigar, barely holding against the renewed waves of doubt crashing over him.

“Fool me once,” McCree mumbles to himself, taking a long puff on the cigar. He congratulates himself on a good effort, then admonishes himself for looking far too closely at something that was likely never there at all.

He leans back against the wall behind him, gaze drawn to the curved rooftops and high walkways that litter downtown Hanamura, and past that, the full moon hanging brightly in the sky just over Shimada castle. A figure leaps over the rooftops, dark against the light of the moon. McCree watches with vague interest as it disappears inside the Shimada compound. Hanzo, he thinks, right on schedule, come back to honor his brother’s untimely death, as he does every year. The thought makes McCree chuckle bitterly. He takes an extra long drag and holds the smoke in his throat, just so he can feel it burn.

There’s nothing left for McCree in Hanamura. It’s time to leave.

McCree stands when the cigar is nothing more than a dimly glowing butt. He takes a last puff, cracking his back and stretching his tired arms over his head. He casts one final, longing look at the sharp outline of the castle, and promptly inhales the cigar butt.

McCree chokes, trying to hack to offending object out of his throat while keeping his gaze intently trained on the faint flash of green light darting from the edge of Shimada castle across the rooftops. It moves almost too quickly for McCree to follow, and the instant he hacks the cigar butt wetly onto the streets, McCree darts for the nearest side street. He leaps the stairs up to the walkways two at the time, gaze frantically scanning the rooftops when he reaches the top, and off in the distance, he catches sight of it once more.

The green glow moves deftly across the horizon, weaving expertly in and out of the buildings in its way, like a feather caught in the wind.

McCree takes off, sprinting more quickly than he ever has in his life as he gives chase. His heart pounds and his lungs burn as he struggles to keep up with his target, the green light seeming to grow fainter and fainter at every turn, dip, or rise in the roofs, until the figure pauses on a perch. Bathed in moonlight as the figure it, McCree can just make out white armor and beige prosthetics.

McCree’s heart leaps. He scrambles, pushing past the screaming protest of his exhausted limbs as he rushes towards the figure in the distance, a grin spreading wider and wider on his face as he closes the gap. He opens his mouth to shout, but the noise sticks to the dry walls of his throat, hoarse and scratchy from the exertion. He’s only two rooftops away now, swallowing heavily to wet his throat when the figure moves, dropping down to some unseen spot below, and vanishing from view.

McCree’s heart sinks. He gasps, forcing as much air as he can into his screaming lungs as he puts forth one last burst of exertion, sprinting to the place where the figure was perched and leaping down into the space below. A rooftop garden, neatly tended and just beginning to sprout with green, but not the soft glowing green of the biolights. His gaze darts around the large open space wildly as he draws in huge, gulping breaths, but he finds nothing. The glow has vanished.

He screams, a long, pained cry of frustration that forces its way out of his throat as little more than a agonizing gasp for air. McCree slumps, stumbling backwards until the backs of his calves hit one of raised garden beds, and he sinks into the soil with the noise still caught in his throat.

“ _God—fucking—_ ”

Peacekeeper unloads itself into the night, six shots that ring hollowly in McCree’s ears. He rips his hat off, running his fingers angrily through his sweat matted hair as every curse in every language he knows fires off inside his head. He slams Peacekeeper angrily back into its holster, and lets out a noise he can’t even put a name to.

For a long moment, McCree sits; chest heaving, lungs burning, heart aching, ass slowly sinking into the soft soil of the garden bed. He blinks back tears as he tries to gather his thoughts, but he finds nothing to salvage. McCree’s mind is blank, hollow and empty. He has no choice but to face to crushing weight of his disappointment head on, like a bullet to the stomach, but so much worse.

The breeze flits over the him, causing McCree to shudder as the sweat dripping down the back of his neck and his temples begins to cool rapidly. He unwraps his serape, dabbing blearily at the dampness collected in every crevice of his body as he stands, legs shaky and exhausted. He sighs deeply, shoulders slumping as the last of his hope withers in his chest.

“Motherfucking horse shit,” McCree hisses. One tear wins the battle with his furiously blinking eyelids and slips slowly down his cheek as McCree reaches for another cigar.

Nearby, something drops to the ground with a soft pap. The sound rings loud as gunshot in McCree’s ears, his head whipping up so fast he hears something crack.

On the other end of the rooftop garden, Genji Shimada rises from a crouch. His green biolights glow brightly in the dark, and the vents on his shoulders release with tiny puffs of air. His posture betrays no emotion, but his head rises until the slit in his visor stares directly at McCree, pinning him in place. McCree swallows heavily around the lump in his throat, and it is only in this moment McCree realizes how utterly unprepared he is to face Genji again. The words hurled between them before Genji’s untimely departure are thrown into sharp relief in McCree’s head, a vague sense of nausea crawling up the back of his throat at the sharp, bitter inelegance of it all.

  _You cannot possibly be interested in something that is all but a machine! You chase after an ideal you do not even understand! You cannot… you cannot have affections me!_

 _Listen, you selfish fucking asshole. You can be as self goddamn deprecating as you want, you can wallow in your self pity all you goddamn please, you can even fucking run away to escape your goddamn feelings, but you do_ not _get to to tell me how I’m supposed to feel about you!_

Slowly, McCree places his hat back on his head, and wraps the serape back around his shoulders loosely. Genji watches him, and for all his years of building careful walls and barrier,s McCree finds himself horribly exposed under Genji’s gaze. What does one say to the man with whom McCree’s last interaction doubled as a confession of love and a vitriolic shouting match? He thinks of the monk, wondering if Genji’s wanderings may have actually brought him a measure of peace, or if perhaps he’s more angry than ever. Both seem likely. Even on some of Genji’s good days in Overwatch, he was often ready to rip McCree into shreds. One wrong word, and everything McCree might have hoped for will be undone.

McCree reaches up, touching the brim of his head. “Howdy, darlin’,” he spits out before he can stop himself, and winces at his extraordinary display of intelligence.

Genji darts forward, biolights leaving the briefest streaks of green lingering where he was. McCree’s body braces for impact, muscles tensing as he prepares for a fight, for Genji to yell and scream and punch while McCree barely holds against him, pleading for Genji to listen, that McCree is sorry, he’s sorry, _he’s so sorry—_

It takes Jesse McCree approximately five seconds to realize he’s being embraced, and his entire brain short circuits.

McCree’s arms come up on reflex, wrapping themselves loosely around the warm body pressed against his as he stares down at Genji in shock. Genji’s arms are cinched tight around his torso, his biolights glowing so brightly looking at them hurts McCree’s eyes. He pushes closer, and McCree’s knees tremble, threatening to give way at any moment. His heart pounds so harshly in his chest he’s surprised it doesn’t knock Genji’s head away from where it rests, close enough that the tips of the metal wings on his head brush against McCree’s chin.

“ _Jesse_ ,” Genji breathes, voice muffled from his faceplate pressing into McCree’s chest. “It is so _good_ to see you again.”

**Author's Note:**

> SO ANYWAY THIS GOT WILDLY OUT OF HAND.
> 
> Please feel free to critique, I think I lost my ability to edit properly about four days ago.
> 
> If you too enjoy cowboys and cyborgs destroying your life, hit me up on [twitter](https://twitter.com/ladyhoneylove) or [tumblr](http://ladyhoneydarlinglove.tumblr.com/).


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